Page 89 of Eldritch
Tears wavered in her eyes, and she quickly swiped at her cheek. “Yes?”
“Perfect.”
The tear trickled down her cheek, and Zevander desperately wanted to thumb it away.
“I am far from perfect, Angel.”
“You call me an angel. But imagine I am something else, suffering in the bowels of Hell.”
Her expression tightened. “A demon?”
“Perhaps.”
Eyes wide, she kicked away from him again. “Is that what you are?”
Zevander didn’t answer, but instead pondered the question himself.
“If you’re a demon, then I would be punished for speaking with you. But…I would grieve the absence of your voice.”
“Then, it’s best if you tell no one.”
“A secret?”
“Yes. A very dark secret. Can you keep secrets?”
“Oh, yes. I’m very good at keeping secrets.”
“Excellent.” Again, his hands were drawn to touch her, his palms itching to know the softness of her skin. “Tell me your name.”
“Everyone calls me The Lor?—”
“I’m aware of what everyone calls you,” Zevander interrupted. “And I told you that is no longer your name.”
The sharpness in her eyes softened. “It’s Mae?—”
“Who are you talking to, girl?”
So caught up in his fascination, Zevander hadn’t noticed a soldier dressed in armor strolling up to her.
“No one, Sir. I lost my footing and dropped my fruit, is all.” She gathered up the remaining figs and apricots scattered on the ground. “A nasty squirrel stole it from me.”
“Don’t lie to me, girl,” he growled.
“I swear, I’m not lying.” She lifted the basket. “I would not lie.”
The soldier looked toward the basket and back. “Unfasten your dress.”
A thick, venomous wrath slinked through Zevander’s veins.
“Sir, I beg you. I mean no deception. A squirrel ran off with one of my figs, and I was angry. That’s all.”
“Unfasten. Your dress.” Brows raised, the soldier wore an expectant expression and tipped his head. “Immediately.”
“If you heard me speak, I often pray to The Red God on long walks,” she prattled on, but Zevander could sense his intentions. He knew that sadistic gleam all too well.
“Defy me again, and I will carve the order into your flesh with a hot blade.”
A slowly uncoiling fury simmered inside of Zevander, and he forced himself to tamp it down, or risk breaching The Liminal to punish him.
